


The Beautiful Beast: Prologue

by Isuvviaraq



Series: The Beautiful Beast [1]
Category: No Fandom, 陰陽師 | Onmyoji (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Marriage, M/M, Prologue, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-11-09 03:03:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20846480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isuvviaraq/pseuds/Isuvviaraq
Summary: The prologue and framing device for the narration of The Beautiful Beast





	The Beautiful Beast: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please be advised that this work DOES contain some ending-spoilers. If you're completely new to the series, then it should be alright for you to go ahead and read this, and hopefully it will whet your appetite for the story to come. 
> 
> However, if you've been following the story up to now and are very eager to find out what happens in Book III, I recommend that you hold off on reading this one. At least until Book III Chapter 4. You're in too deep to run back to the prologue now XD

The Beautiful Beast

美しき野獣

Regal, ancient, imminent, sagely,

The mountains recline with their backs against a sky

Whose gray-cloud padding was flaking away at the edges like lichen scraped off blue marble.

Across the mountains’ backs, shoulders, and chests, trees like courtiers stand

Murmuring in dripping cloaks of amber and drowsy green.

Touched by the stillness, relieved at the fresh memory of rain,

The mountain allows a single, white tear drop to roll down its face with a muttering peal.

To the fringes of this whisper of a river,

Creeping bears, scuttling foxes, and scurrying deer come to sip.

Fluttering hawks come to wet their beaks

Before climbing back into the anonymous mist.

In the forest court, a sparrow shivers out of its master’s sleeve

And disturbs a piece of dandruff – a moth too tired to be flying by day.

It clutches at the air with weary wings, sinking toward the gritty earth.

The court hisses a reproach, and the moth swoops toward a shady, wooden crescent

That arches across the tumbling stream.

Here, it snuggles peacefully between a trench of planks and returns to its slumber.

It does not wake again that day.

Not even when its cradle quakes with the tread of a wanderer in wooden sandals.

This same wanderer, though burdened by a heavy traveling pack

From which a number of bonsais sprout, walks with serenity of pace,

The legs of his yellow hakama caked in the dust of the road.

In his hand, bobbing like the beak of a crane,

A gray-green umbrella sheds no more

Than two droplets with every step.

When the mountain path brings him beside a shrine,

The man stops and begins to exchange pleasantries with its occupant.

The stone resident listens, grateful for the company.

Not a minute has passed before a crow comes along,

Alights upon one of the bonsais that the wanderer carries, and mutters into his ear.

The wanderer looks down the road once more.

A decision is reached.

The wanderer opens the umbrella,

Stands it in the crook of the resident’s arm,

And secures it from the wind with a spare braid.

Now the shrine has been blessed, he goes on his way.

*****

Climbing the mountain with exhausting strides, a traveler kept his eyes on the road. His socks were splattered with mud. A small, limp pack hung over one shoulder. A gourd of water and a small purse hung from his waist. A straw hat with a wide brim showed him no more of the road than his next immediate footsteps. He was not aware of the company he shared with a tiny snail, curled up in slumber upon the heel of his sandal.

As the traveler inched up the mountain, the sun snuck under cover toward the edge of the sky. He walked among the court of noble trees with the covert steps of an underling straining to be inconspicuous.

When the sound of a crackling fire soaked into the traveler’s awareness, the thock-thock-thock of sandals in the leaf-packed road stuttered in its rhythm. The traveler’s neck lifted, the brim of the hat rose, and his shadowed eyes aligned with the hot beams of a cook fire.

At once, his step both softened and quickened, aiming in a trajectory past the ghostly daytime flickering of the fire. He hoped to pass unregarded, as a sleeper who realizes themself on the cusp of a nightmare attempts to dash into wakefulness before encountering the monster whose presence is felt though it remains unseen.

The traveler was passing the fire on his left, moving fleetfooted, and started to believe he might yet pass unaccosted.

The wanderer, though occupied with the tending of his fire and having yet to lift his eyes to the figure, called out in a measured tone, “Slow, brother. You may slip if you move at such a pace.”

The steps of the traveler came to a stop, though his frame leaned still toward the road ahead. “Forgive me… I have far to go,” he said in a voice like the patter of rain on a rooftop.

The wanderer replied before the traveler could resume his steps, holding back one sleeve as he stoked the fire. “I hope not,” said he. “The next village on your road is quite near – just over the next hill, and you will reach it soon. If you should attempt to go further than that this day, you will soon find yourself walking alone and in darkness.”

On hearing this, the traveler eased back from his forward lean. The wood beneath the fire splintered and scorched, and the conversation lulled within the wooded court.

“If you are hungry,” said the wanderer, “I have already finished my noon repast, and I still have enough for one more to eat.”

The brim of the traveler’s hat lifted no higher than the wanderer’s shoulder from his own line of sight. “Why? What do you want in return?” he asked.

The wanderer, without looking toward it, observed a leaf drifting toward the fire. Before it could touch the flames, the heat buffeted the leaf to one side, and it spun lazily before touching the ground. “There is a thing that I want, but I do not ask you for it. It is only right to feed a hungry traveler when meals at the inn are so costly and unappetizing.”

As though unaware of the traveler’s presence, the wanderer leaned to one side and reached into his pack. The traveler watched without looking as the wanderer pulled out a jar capped with cord and cloth over a clay lid. With leisurely but practiced movements, the wanderer unsealed the jar, took up his chopsticks, and pulled out a small, red lump.

The traveler’s nostrils flared from a trace of spicy sweetness. He followed the sight of that red ball as it hopped behind the stranger’s lips. “Pickled cherries,” he whispered. The wanderer hummed in affirmation but made no further appeal.

The murmur of that autumnal court grew louder and rivaled the squawk of a distant crow. Unprompted, the traveler turned aside from the road and took a seat to the left of the wanderer. He did not remove his hat, and the brim kept his face hidden even as he accepted the rice porridge and grilled leeks offered to him. When the jar of pickled cherries was offered, the traveler accepted them, but dipped the brim of his hat nearly to his chest before eating each one. Thus, the depth of his gratitude could not be read.

The traveler, occupied with the business of eating, did not notice the wanderer pulling a scroll from the side of his pack. Only after the wanderer had unrolled a length of the scroll and been reading for some time, when a gust of wind caught the unrolled length and attempted without success to jerk it from the wanderer’s hand, did the traveler hear the rustling paper and cast a glance toward his host. The traveler’s eye marked the scrolls, brushes, and ink stone visible in the wanderer’s pack, the bonsai trees extending their branches out the side, and the stains of ink on the wanderer’s sleeve.

“Are you a scribe?” asked the traveler without lifting the brim of his hat to see his host’s face.

The wanderer, in turn, did not lift his eyes from the scroll in his hands. “More or less,” he replied.

“More or less?” queried the traveler.

“You see…” began the wanderer, lowering the open scroll to his lap and, for the first time, looking askance at the traveler, “I do certainly write much. I copy and write from dictation both letters and narratives, and these things do characterize a scribe. However, I am primarily a wanderer and a great collector of stories. And these stories, I do not often sell… Though I may share them from time to time.”

The traveler, in his turn, inclined his head so that the brim of his hat lifted and afforded the wanderer a view of his eyes. The traveler’s eyes were as unnatural as they were beautiful. They seemed almost to shiver as the fire shone like sparks of gold in their reflection.

“You are not human,” the traveler observed.

The wanderer continued to watch the traveler only through sidelong gaze. “No. I’m not. But you, surprisingly, are.”

“Why did you invite me to sup with you?” asked the traveler with a directness of tone that nearly made the question sound rhetorical. 

“You are a traveler on a weary road,” replied the wanderer. “You are made of flesh and blood and had greater need than I for this repast. Thus, it was right to give you a piece of my fire and a share of my lunch.”

The traveler frowned. “You mentioned before that there was a thing you wanted from me.”

The wanderer looked at his guest, then lifted a stick and poked at the fire. “My hospitality is given at no cost. I would not spoil your appetite by speaking of this prematurely.”

“I am finished eating,” the traveler replied.

Carefully, the wanderer lay his stick to the side, then began to roll up the scroll in his lap. “You have a story to tell. I have a hunch that it will be quite unique.”

At once, the traveler’s expression became more guarded. “Then this meal has been payment for that story?”

“I have already said that my hospitality demands no price,” answered the wanderer, stifling his indignation as he tucked the scroll away. “As I have said, sharing my meal with a hungry traveler was the right thing to do. I am owed nothing.”

The traveler continued to stare at him, but the wanderer seemed not disturbed by those fearsome eyes. “How, then, did you hope to get my story from me?”

The wanderer said seriously, “By asking it of you.”

The traveler responded promptly, “I will refuse.”

“Ah, will you?” asked the wanderer. “This is, then, a story told only to your closest and dearest friends?” The traveler’s jaws made a single motion, but his lips remained decidedly fastened. “To your one true love alone?” The traveler, who had been straightening his back with pride and self-defense, sat a little less rigidly. “Only to yourself, then?” The traveler shrank back, and once more his brim dropped low past his chin.

Seeming to ignore his guest and forget the last few minutes of discourse, the wanderer pulled a small kettle from his pack. “I have a craving for tea. Will you wait here for me to fill this?”

The traveler’s head remained bowed, but he agreed. The fire burned smokeless under the gloomy sky. In the distance, a fox yelped and brayed in some game it was enjoying. The lonesome figure sat with head down before the fire, arms folded across his chest as though with cold. So still was he, he might have passed for a statue.

Despite the long time that the wanderer spent on his errand, the traveler was nonetheless startled by his return. Once the kettle was on the fire and the tea brewing, the silence returned as though it had never left; the wanderer made no attempt to pry or pressure his guest.

The wanderer’s clay tea cups were very small – some might have called them quaint – but they were well suited to the size of the pot and to the recipients. The wanderer gulped with understated contentment. The traveler hardly tasted that which he sipped.

At length, it was the traveler who returned to their earlier discussion. “Why do you want to know my story?”

The wanderer allowed for an appropriate pause before replying. “I value understanding of the world. Humans are a part of that world.” His eyes slid across the traveler’s brim. “For what it’s worth… It may be to _your _benefit to tell your story… to somebody. And I happen to be close to hand.”

“Why should that be to my benefit?” asked the traveler with no small quantity of suspicion.

By way of an answer, the wanderer drew two scrolls out of his pack – one very large and the other rather small. He proffered each to the traveler in turn. The large one was found to be unexpectedly light. The small one was stunningly heavy. The traveler remarked upon each circumstance.

“As these scrolls demonstrate,” explained the wanderer, “Some stories are heavier than others. There is more to most people than meets the eye, and I have a special talent for…” For an instant, his speech faltered. He waved a hand through the air as though groping for an appropriate metaphor. Then he laughed as the metaphor occurred to him, and gesturing to his companion he proceeded, “For doing as you have just done. For measuring the heft of a story through gentle means, never being so crass as to peek without permission. Thanks to that talent, I’ve determined that the story you carry inside of you is a heavy one indeed. One that weighs gravely upon your soul. And in previous cases when a… client has had a heavy story to tell, confiding that story… to me and my ink… proves both cathartic and liberating. It can lighten the soul, help one to feel less congested.”

The traveler pondered all this for a time, then asked, “What do you gain from this? Only the story?”

“Only the story,” confirmed the wanderer. “Some have attempted to pay me before out of gratitude, but I will accept naught but travel rations – if I accept anything at all.”

“What would you do with my story?” the traveler inquired.

The wanderer returned the small and large scrolls to his pack. “Keep it. Read it on occasion, perhaps.”

“Would you share it with others?” the traveler queried.

The wanderer looked toward the traveler and the pair of shadowed eyes whose lower edges were just visible beneath the brim of his hat. Staring directly, he returned, “At some point, that is likely. But at your request, I will forestall sharing it for a time.”

“For how long?” the traveler pressed.

With all tranquility, the wanderer met the traveler’s unnatural gaze full-on and repeated the question on his own behalf. “For how long?”

The traveler blinked at this, then after a moment declared, “800 years.”

With even less hesitation, the wanderer answered, “Done.”

The traveler was still reeling at this quick and uncontested acceptance when, faster than his eyes could follow, the wanderer produced a blank scroll, his ink stone, and a brush from his pack with a flourish. The traveler was about to protest, but as the spirit swept his brush through the air, a flock of tiny black crows materialized in the wake of that immaterial brush stroke. They did not caw nor croak, but the beating of their inky wings filled the clearing. The traveler watched, mesmerized, as the flock flew a full circuit about the wanderer’s head, then dove into the ink stone, filling it. As though nothing out of the ordinary had taken place, the wanderer simply dipped his brush into the ink and spread the first length of the scroll flat across his lap.

At last, the traveler found his voice again and asked, “Who are you?”

The wanderer appeared undisturbed by the suddenness of the question and swabbed his brush with poise against the stone. “In some regions, such as this one, I am known as Bukkuman. But more commonly, I go by the name of Shoyo.”

The brim of the traveler’s hat continued to conceal his face, and none could see if either of these names meant anything to him. At length, he inquired, “You truly will not share my story with another for 800 years?”

Shoyo nodded. Then, when the traveler still hesitated, he offered, “If you fear I may be tempted to break my oath, you may set your mind at ease. I have written many times many stories, and rare is the year I share a full dozen of them.”

The traveler contemplated this for a moment, then said, “I may ramble somewhat… I have a lot of memories to dredge through… and I may miss some points.”

“That’s fine,” replied the wanderer. “Only about half the stories in my pack are from real events. Even should you choose to lie or conceal aught from me, I shall write only what you tell me to write and be grateful for what you share.”

The traveler was as touched by this display of humility as he had been by the display of power a moment before. Half a minute passed in silence, and Shoyo waited patiently all that time. At last, the traveler released a sigh and said, “Very well. Where I’m going, I will need to let go of such secrets anyway. Perhaps it _would _be helpful to relieve myself of such a burdensome tale as… this one.”

So saying, he lowered his head once more, but this time he also reached up to remove the straw hat from his head.

When an emperor orders one of his vassals, “Find a black horse for me to ride,” he always has a particular vision in mind. He pictures a stallion whose coat is jet black – so glossy and lustrous that, where it shines, it flashes pure white without a trace of intervening gray or silver.

The traveler’s hair, as it fell in a voluminous wave down his back, exemplified this quality. Yet, had any emperor sought to use this hair as the standard for a black horse fit for a king, he would have died in disappointment after a lifetime spent searching for a suitable mount. For no horse has ever had a coat to match the traveler’s hair in texture: so dense, so lush, so yielding and so heavy. Underwater, it would feel as soft and dry to the touch as the finest cotton. Dry, it felt as smooth and rich as silk oiled with perfume.

This mantle of glistening obsidian was supported by a slender frame with skin so pale as to appear faintly luminous. The man’s beardless face, smooth and without wrinkle, looked no older than 18, but his stately bearing bespoke a greater age. His eyes were varicolored, green and blue and turquoise, glistening like the coat of a peacock. Though of less than average height for a man, the direct, deep, piercing quality of those ethereal eyes would make most onlookers feel no more than a few inches tall.

But taken altogether, the hair, the skin, the eyes, and the height, it would not have been difficult to mistake the traveler for a woman. Even his voice – strong, fair, and tempered as it was – would have been equally becoming to a man or a woman.

Thus revealed, the traveler met the eyes of the wanderer and announced, “My name is Sato no Hiroshi.”

Upon seeing the full countenance of this traveler – this human whose beauty made him seem more like an ethereal creature than himself, Shoyo did no more than raise his eyebrows. To Sato’s eyes, this seemed more a gesture of appreciation than shock. This thought was supported when Shoyo moved to record Sato no Hiroshi’s name without comment as soon as it was recited.

Thus reassured, the traveler laid his hat down at his feet, gathered his black hair all behind his shoulders where it would not distract him, and stared into the fire as he gathered his thoughts. The murmurous rustling of the wooded mountain had by this time subsided, as though the trees also wished to hear their small child’s disastrous tale.

Sato sat a long, long while without speaking, but the wanderer remained still and patient, the tip of his ink-laden brush hovering just above the ink stone. At last, letting out a sigh that was the weary victory-call of resolution overcoming trepidation, he spoke.

“Unused to story-telling as I am, it is difficult to know where to begin. ‘At the beginning’ is the usual advice. But just what _is _the beginning?” Whether he meant it as idle speculation or as the start of his narrative, one cannot be sure. Nonetheless, Shoyo deftly recorded every word.

“I was born in a village on a small island, neither so remote as to be exotic, nor so central as to make it a convenient port of call. My small village was so humble and lacking in pretension that its residents called it simply Umi no Mura.” At this, the faintest of smiles touched Shoyo’s lips, and still he recorded without remark. Thus reassured, the traveler continued, “I was third of four children, and the youngest son of Sato no Yuki, perhaps the only independent wood block printer in all of Japan. Our family’s enterprise began four generations ago when…”

He trailed off, a frown disturbing his pretty face. Then a painful sigh rushed through his teeth. “No… I’ll never get started if I begin in this way… and it will all be rendered useless before the end. No, if I am to unwind this story… then I had better start with _him_.” Sato pronounced the word as though it were a hideous morsel he wished to push off his tongue.

“Yes… This story… my misfortune… my trauma… It all began on the night that everything else fell apart. On that terrible evening when I first encountered… _him_.”


End file.
